Nikandr arrives on Rafsuhan and soon discovers that Muqallad has been making plans there as well. He has an ally in Kaleh, a young girl he soon discovers is Sariya’s own daughter. Muqallad and Kaleh have been using the children of the Maharraht, people who are loyal to them, for their own gain. Muqallad takes the children and turns them into akhoz, strange, twisted creatures that hardly resemble the children they once were, then uses them in a terrible ritual to fuse two of the pieces of the Atalayina together. Only the third piece, which now rests in Atiana’s hands, will keep him from his ultimate goal: to bring about indaraqiram, an event that will destroy the world to begin it anew. With two of the three pieces of the Atalayina now in hand, Muqallad goes to Galahesh to find the third piece, and Nikandr follows.
Atiana, meanwhile, has learned more of Sariya. Years ago Sariya forced the Kamarisi of Yrstanla to begin the construction of a bridge that would cross the Straits of Galahesh. That bridge, known as the Spar, is nearly complete, and Atiana realizes too late that it will allow the windships of the Empire of Yrstanla to cross the straits themselves, a thing once thought impossible. As the bridge is completed, Atiana’s father is taken to the center of the newly completed Spar and sacrificed by the Kamarisi of Yrstanla himself. Soon after, windships soar across the straits to attack the Grand Duchy. War ensues, but Atiana makes it away safely by hiding within the massive city of Baressa. What she doesn’t realize is that her mind is not her own. She’s caught in Sariya’s spell, and has been for some time. Sariya forces Atiana to return and surrender the third piece of the Atalayina. With this in hand, Sariya goes to Muqallad and together, in another grisly ritual, they make the Atalayina whole.
The war, however, has reached the shores of Galahesh. The forces of the Grand Duchy, led by Nikandr’s father, Iaros, have crossed the treacherous seas and are pushing toward the Spar to prevent Muqallad and Sariya from performing their final ritual, the one that will bring about indaraqiram. They manage to hold off the forces of Yrstanla long enough to reach the Spar, and there, in a final confrontation, Atiana puts Sariya’s powers in check while Nasim and Nikandr move against Muqallad. Sariya is killed shortly before Muqallad reaches the center of the Spar. Nasim, however, uses a knife to stab Nikandr in the chest. He does so because of the thread that had been tying them together ever since the two met one another on Khalakovo five years before. This frees Nasim. He is finally able to control his abilities, and he moves to stop Muqallad from completing the ritual. As Nasim and Muqallad battle, a ship piloted by Grigory Bolgravya crashes into the Spar, killing Muqallad and sending Nasim and Nikandr down toward the turbulent waters below. Nasim uses the Atalayina to heal Nikandr, but then he is taken by Kaleh, the daughter of Sariya. They crash deep into the water and are lost.
Nikandr discovers after the battle that his father, Iaros, has been killed in battle. Nikandr and Atiana have now both lost their fathers to this struggle. They fear the worst for Nasim, but they believe Kaleh escaped with the Atalayina. Knowing that powerful stone cannot be left in her hands, they vow to go and find her, wherever the trail may lead.
Dramatis Personæ
Prince Nikandr Iarosloav Khalakovo: youngest son of the Duke and Duchess of Khalakovo.
Princess Atiana Radieva Vostroma: daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Vostroma.
Nasim an Ashan: an orphan Aramahn boy with strange abilities to commune with elemental spirits.
Styophan Andrashayev: a komodor of the Khalakovan staaya.
Ashan Kida al Ahrumea: one of the arqesh (master of all disciplines) among the Aramahn.
Soroush Wahad al Gatha: leader of the northern sect of the Maharraht.
The Duchy of Khalakovo
The Duke and Duchess
Ranos Iaroslov Khalakovo
Yvanna Antoneva Khalakovo
Others
Saphia Mishkeva Khalakovo: mother of Ranos, Nikandr, and Victania
Princess Victania Saphieva Khalakovo: sister of Ranos and Nikandr.
Isaak Ylafslov: the seneschal of Palotza Radiskoye.
Rodion: cousin to Styophan and a trusted soldier in his command.
The Duchy of Vostroma
The Duke and Duchess
Borund Zhabynov Vostroma
Nataliya Iyaneva Bolgravya
Others
Radia Anastasiyeva Vostroma: mother of Borund, Atiana, Mileva, and Ishkyna.
Princess Mileva Radieva Vostroma: daughter, sister to Atiana.
Princess Ishkyna Radieva Vostroma: daughter, sister to Atiana.
Katerina Vostroma: a Matra of Vostroma: Zhabyn’s sister.
The Duchy of Bolgravya
The Duke
Konstantin Stasayev Bolgravya
Grigory Stasayev Bolgravya: Konstantin’s brother.
The Duchy of Dhalingrad
The Grand Duke and Duchess of Anuskaya
Grand Duke Leonid Roaldov Dhalingrad
Grand Duchess Iyana Klarieva Dhalingrad
The Royalty of the Other Duchies
Duke Yegor Nikolov Nodhvyansk
Duchess Kseniya Zoyeva Nodhvyansk
Duke Yevgeny Krazhnegov Mirkotsk
Duchess Polina Anayev Mirkotsk
Duke Andreyo Sergeyov Rhavanki
Duchess Ekaterina Margeva Rhavanki
Duke Heodor Yaroslov Lhudansk
Duchess Rosa Oriseva Lhudansk
Duke Aleg Ganevov Khazabyirsk
Duchess Zanaida Lariseva Khazabyirsk
The Al-Aqim
The Al-Aqim were three legendary arqesh who lived on Ghayavand. Together, they caused the sundering three hundred years ago and were trapped on the island for many years.
Sariya Quljan al Vehayeh: gifted with the ways of the mind and the aether.
Muqallad Bakshazhd al Dananir: gifted with the ways of Adhiya, the spirit world.
Khamal Cyphar al Maladhin: gifted with the ways of Erahm, the material world.
The Aramahn and the Maharraht
Ushai Kissath al Shahda: a woman of the Maharraht who travels with Soroush in search of Nasim.
Anahid: Nikandr’s dhoshaqiram (master of the stuff of life), the cousin of Jahalan.
Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah: The woman who taught Nasim after he was returned to himself in the ritual performed by Soroush.
Bersuq Wahad al Gatha: Soroush’s dead brother, once the leader of the Maharraht.
People of the Yrstanlan Empire
Selim ül Hakan: the young Kamarisi Hakan ül Ayeşe.
Hakan ül Ayeşe: the former Kamarisi of Yrstanla, now dead.
Bahett ül Kirdhash: the regent to Selim ül Hakan, former Kaymakam of Galahesh.
People of Hael
Brechan son of Gaelynd: King of Kings among the Haelish.
Elean: the wife of Kürad, queen to the people of Clan Eidihla.
Kürad son of Külesh: the King of Clan Eidihla, a tribe of the Haelish people.
Datha: a stout Haelish warrior of Clan Eidihla.
Aelwen: a wodjan of Hael, a mystic who uses blood to scry the fortunes of others.
PROLOGUE
At first light, deep within the massive Palotza Radiskoye, Styophan Andrashayev sat in a chair near the largest bed he’d ever slept in while his wife busied herself around the room, preparing them both for the coronation. Styophan’s dress uniform lay on the bed. The pants he already wore, but the white shirt and the silk scarf and the black cherkesska, the one upon which all his medals were pinned, lay there, waiting to be donned.
“Hurry yourself,” Rozalyna said.
He slipped one boot partway on and used two wood-handled hooks to pull at the straps inside the boots until his foot slid home. The boots were a deep and beautiful black. They’d been polished by Rozalyna yesterday, hours before the coach had come for them at their home on the outskirts of Volgorod. She polished them again last night after they’d arrived and been shown to their opulent rooms in the palotza’s northern wing. She’d tried to do so again this morning, but he’d refused her. “You’ll wear them throu
gh the way you go at them.”
She’d huffed while washing her face in the porcelain basin. “If I left it up to you, you’d go in your long clothes.”
After pulling on the second boot, Styophan stretched them, trying to work out the tightness. He’d never had the chance to break them in, and now he’d be limping from blisters on a day that should have brought honor to him and his entire family.
He pulled on his shirt and tied the red scarf tightly around his neck so that the shirt’s collar stood up, slipped into his cherkesska, and stood before the mirror. “’Twould be a sight, wouldn’t it?”
He could see Roza in the mirror, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing her long brown hair. The sound of it was like leaves being raked in the distance. “What would?”
“Everyone wearing long clothes to the coronation?”
Roza leveled her stare at him, the one that told him she was not pleased, but then she burst out laughing. “Could you see that fat Borund walking in with his stained bed shirt to hand Ranos the scepter?”
“He wouldn’t dare take up Iaros’s scepter.”
“If it’s a fancy we’re talking about, I’ll have that fat slob wearing a stained bed shirt and handing the scepter of Khalakovo to Ranos if I want.”
It was his turn to stare, but he couldn’t keep it up. He broke down laughing. “Scepter in one hand, ham hock in the other.”
Roza laughed so hard her face turned red and she wiped tears from her eyes.
“Be quiet,” Styophan said. “You’ll wake our neighbors.”
It took her long moments of rolling laughter before she could speak again. “I don’t think we have neighbors, Styopha.” She finished her brushing and came to his side by the mirror. She looked him up and down, her pride showing clear.
He tried to see what she saw. But in himself he could only see a soldier that had failed his commander. He looked at the scars along his right cheek, at the patch over his right eye. His bloody right eye. Why did it have to be the right? He could still remember the akhoz—that foul, misshapen child—crawling up his sword and grabbing his jaw and pulling herself along until she was able to snatch his wrist, then his neck, and finally his head. It had all happened so quickly. Her withered hands had grabbed his skull like a gourd, her right thumb piercing his eye. By his father’s fathers, it had been agony. What was worse, though, was the realization that he had failed to save his lord, Prince Nikandr, that he’d failed to wake Princess Atiana from the spell that had been put upon her. No matter that they had both lived—it had been no thanks to him.
“Stop thinking about it,” Roza said.
He took a deep breath, taking in the coat, the boots, the scarf. He looked a right proper soldier. But he was an impostor. Ranos might be giving him a medal today, perhaps an assignment, but he’d be giving it to the wrong man.
“Stop it.” She put her arm around him and pulled him tight. “A prouder wife there never was, and you should be proud, too.”
“I may have to go again.”
“As you’ve said, but even if you hadn’t, the wife of a strelet at war knows such things.”
He drew his gaze down to her. She still wore her nightdress. Through the supple cloth he could see the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. He turned to face her and pulled her into a deep embrace, smelling the scent of rosewater on her skin. He drank in the form of her, his hand against the small of her back, his hips pressed tight against hers, his lips against the soft round of muscle just behind her ear. How had he lived so long without her?
And how would he do so again?
Roza tried to pull away. “We’re due at the ceremony, Styophan!”
“The ceremony can wait.” He pulled her tight and together they fell into the bed. She struggled as he kissed her neck, right where she liked it. He slipped one hand beneath her dress and caressed her thighs.
“Stypoha…” She spoke his name—half rebuke, half invitation. She made no move to stop him as he moved his hand slowly up. She drew breath sharply when he reached the silky place between her thighs. A slow moan escaped her as he began stroking her there.
She pushed his shoulders away, but not hard. She closed her eyes, arched her neck back, drew her pelvis higher as her moaning intensified. She regarded him with a slow, smoldering look, and then she flipped him over and straddled his waist. She pressed herself against him, thighs tightening over his hips, hair tickling his face as she bit his ear. “Perhaps it can wait for a bit,” she whispered.
He drew her in for a kiss as warm as a winter fire. “Just don’t make me take off my boots.”
She looked back, confused, and then dissolved into laughter. A more beautiful sound he’d never heard.
As he pulled off her dress and she scooted his pants down to his thighs—going no further than the tops of his tight dress boots—he lost himself in her form. He knew it was partly so he wouldn’t have to think about Galahesh—he also knew that in another day he might regret what he was doing, or at least the reason he was doing it—but right then, he didn’t care.
And then, as she settled down on top of him, a moan escaped his lips.
Styophan watched, Rozalyna by his side, as Prince Nikandr handed his brother, Ranos, the scepter of Khalakovo. The two brothers wore their long coats of office—bright medals and the golden seal of Khalakovo pinned over their right breast, epaulets of golden thread resting on their shoulders. Their tall black boots, every bit as polished as Styophan’s, glinted under the soft light that suffused the room. They stood on a dais. The ducal throne of Khalakovo rested behind them. Dozens were in attendance, but there were many notable in their absence. Some had been taken by the war, some by disease, some by old age. The courts of Khalakovo were changing, but at least it was back in rightful hands.
Styophan was close enough to the front of the assemblage that he could see Ranos’s hands tremble as he held the scepter. There was no expression of joy on his face, no sense of satisfaction that the interloper, Borund, had finally left Khalakovo’s shores. His was an expression of sadness, as if he wished for nothing more than to turn and hand the scepter to his father.
And yet, as quickly as this expression came, it fled, and Ranos straightened. He turned to those gathered and raised the scepter and said, “For the throne!”
“For the throne!” the crowd yelled back, and then everyone began clapping while the military men stomped their feet.
Nikandr, standing next to Ranos, cheered along with everyone else, but there was a certain lifelessness in his eyes that Styophan had often seen since the events at the Spar. He didn’t know what had happened. He heard something about Nikandr being wounded. Some said he had been stabbed by Muqallad. Others said Soroush. Some even said Nasim had done it, though how this could be, from a boy as gentle as Nasim, Styophan couldn’t guess. The one time Styophan had broached the subject, Nikandr had refused to speak of it, so Styophan left it alone, figuring Nikandr would share the story if and when he wished.
Styophan looked to the opposite side of the aisle and saw Princess Atiana. She was smiling—beaming—as she watched Ranos with Nikandr by his side. The joy of it filled Styophan’s heart as well. The man who had led Khalakovo through the storm had passed, and now a strong young man was taking his place. As the crowd continued to clap, as the streltsi, young and old, continued to stomp, Atiana turned her head and caught Styophan’s eye.
Styophan felt a chill run through him. He could think of nothing in that moment but the princess staring down at him coldly as the akhoz, that shriveled, rotted girl, clawed her way toward his throat. He wondered what had happened afterward. Why had he not been killed? Had Atiana found some small ounce of compassion, or had the fact that he still breathed simply gone overlooked? The look on Atiana’s face was not one of apology, but there was something like regret. As the clapping died down at last, she tipped her head, as if she too had felt the victim that cold morning in the streets of Vihrosh.
Suddenly the sharp sound of bells fill
ed the room, and everyone turned their heads. The doors leading to the great room were opened. Servants stepped in carrying small silver handbells. They rang them in time, walking slowly and leading the crowd into the adjoining room where a feast would be held. As he was bid, however, Styophan remained, giving Roza a kiss on her cheek before she left.
She looked up to him, with a smile as wide as the seas. She knew that this was an honor for him. She also knew—for he’d told her—that he would likely receive his next commission at this meeting, whatever it might be. She knew he might be called away, and yet here she was, eyes proud, tears of joy gathering at their corners. She squeezed his hand one last time and then followed the rest.
Soon the doors had been closed and Styophan was left with seven other officers of the Grand Duchy’s wind corps, the staaya, as well as Ranos and Nikandr. In turn, Ranos greeted each man, thanking them for their service in the conflict on Galahesh. There was Artur Edikov, a grizzly old officer who led a vicious, even foolish, countercharge when the forces of Yrstanla had nearly routed the Grand Duchy’s troops near the base of the Mount in Baressa. There was Denis Gennadov, a dark-faced hussar with his left arm in a sling, his hand now missing. He had charged through deep ranks of janissaries to reach a cannon position near the straits that had been laying waste to a line of advancing streltsi. He and his hussari on their fearless ponies had laid waste to the cannoneers, allowing the streltsi to advance at last. There was Aleg Kastayov, a young, wide-eyed strelet with a shock of blond hair—he couldn’t have been more than sixteen—who had found his commander unconscious behind the enemy lines and had carried him through the city streets until he reached a physic.
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh Page 2